


In The Beginning

by Severina



Category: Tarzan - All Media Types, The Legend of Tarzan (2016)
Genre: Community: smallfandombang, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: Jane Porter doesn't believe in ghosts, and when she's inexplicably drawn to the wild man who appears in her midst when she's playing with the children, she never doubts the wisdom of following her heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this story, the initial meeting between John and Jane when he takes her handkerchief and the subsequent ape attack take place on two separate occasions.
> 
> Written for LJ's smallfandombang.

I

"Tell me what you know of Tarzan," Jane says.

She notices that Wasimbu slants a look at her, but most of Jane's attention is focused on the plain before them, the long yellow grass shining in the fading sunlight and swaying in the warm breeze. Her straw hat lies abandoned at her side; her shoes are tumbled in a tangle of laces next to its wide brim, her stockings tucked into them. She leans back on her elbows and wiggles her toes in the dry grass. At their backs the people of the village will be starting to settle in for the night, but on the ridge there is only the rustle of the grasses and the chitter of the monkeys in the far-off trees. If her father were here, he would scold her for her unbound hair, for the ever so shocking sight of her bare ankles, for sneaking away from the safety of the tribe near sunset to sit alone with Wasimbu. So it's a good thing that her father is not there, gone to Boma for days and days to meet with the English officials who have traveled across the ocean to discuss the continued funding of his work. It had taken all of her persistence and a dozen promises – most of which she truly does intend to keep, though sometimes her impetuous nature gets the better of her – to convince her father to let her stay behind with the chief. Surely, she had said, her father did not think that any harm would come to her under Muviro's care?

"You know the stories, Jane Porter," Wasimbu says. "You have heard the tales told around the fire."

Jane sits up and folds her arms across her bent knees, lays her cheek on her forearms to watch her friend. "Tell me again."

Wasimbu's answering smile is patient. "Tarzan is the ghost in the trees, neither animal nor man. He rules the mangini apes with brutal savagery and holds sway over every animal in the jungle, because he can speak to them and force them to do his will. He is the evil spirit that haunts the dark paths of the forest."

"Do you really believe that?"

It's Wasimbu's turn to study the golden plain. "It is what the elders believe."

"Wasimbu…"

"Tarzan is a myth. Nothing more."

There is such finality in his words that Jane straightens. If she were a superstitious person like most of the tribe, she would fear the retribution from the Gods that would occur at such a bold and presumptuous statement. But she is American, and she knows something that Wasimbu does not. "He's not a myth," she says, unable to hold it in any longer. "I've seen him."

She expects an exclamation of surprise, or a questioning look at the very least. But all Wasimbu does is raise one slender eyebrow. The implied skepticism immediately piques her anger.

"I have!" she insists. "I saw him yesterday!" 

Wasimbu rolls lithely to his feet. "We should be returning to the village," he says. "Muviro will be worried, and I don't like to worry my father."

Jane frowns, her brow creasing when he holds out his hand to help her to rise. His silhouette against the setting sun makes him look like a malevolent ghost himself, his expression hidden in the long shadows of twilight. But she doesn't need to see his face to know that he is looking at her with undisguised amusement, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a grin. 

She puffs out her cheeks indignantly and struggles to her feet on her own, even if she does nearly lose her balance on the steep slope in the process. Wasimbu merely shakes his head and ducks down to retrieve her hat and shoes, a courtesy that frustrates her almost as much as his indulgent little smile. She is not a child to be cossetted and coddled. She's a grown woman and she knows what she saw!

"I did see Tarzan," Jane insists as she brushes past him. Wasimbu and his annoying little smirk. She can hear him following through the long grass, keeping pace with her as she stomps back to the village. Because God forbid she be left alone for one blessed second. And she knows that she sounds like the spoiled brat that she's insisting was left behind when she gave up bloomers and starting teaching the children instead of playing with them in the dirt, but she can't resist flinging around to toss one final fact in Wasimbu's smug face. "He stole my handkerchief!" she blurts out.

"Silly girl," Wasimbu says. "I think you have been out in the sun too long, Jane Porter." 

He only laughs at her grunt of frustration, but he knows better than to follow her into the dwelling that she shares with her father. She hears his bare feet on the bamboo as he creeps up to the porch and lays her things on the chair that sits outside the door, and she deliberately keeps her back turned. She can still sense him standing there long after she has flounced into her room and thrown herself onto the bed. It's not like her to leave him without a kiss to the cheek, no matter how her father might fuss and grumble, and it is long moments before she hears him make his way to his own hut. 

Jane huffs out a breath, stares at the ceiling. Wasimbu can be infuriating at times, but it doesn't take long for her aggravation with him to fade. He's just a boy, after all.

It's Tarzan that is paramount in her thoughts. 

His long, lean body; powerful in a way she had never seen among the tribesmen of the Kuba. His eyes, wide and innocent in a way that seemed incongruous to his obvious strength. The way he had looked at her made her shiver, yet caused a strange twist in her stomach that was nothing like she'd ever felt before. And the way he'd touched her… 

Jane squirms on the bedclothes, feels her cheeks flush at the memory of his nose brushing her cheek, her throat, her... 

She'd made him stop, of course. Pushed him away. She does have some measure of decorum. But in her heart of hearts she can admit to herself that she really didn't want him to stop. 

She closes her eyes and snuggles into her pillow, though the sun has barely set and it is still far too early to go to bed. But with her eyes closed it feels safe to imagine what might have happened if she hadn't forced him away. If his hands had followed the path that his nose had taken, sweeping first across her cheek and then trailing a fingertip along the column of her neck. If she had allowed him to brush his knuckles against the swell of her breasts. She wonders if he would have felt the pounding of her heart through the thin material of her gown; if he would have known that her legs were trembling at his proximity and that it was only his grip on her hips that was keeping her upright. 

She wonders what his lips would feel like pressed against her own.

Jane rolls over with a groan, her heart racing; presses her thighs together in a vain attempt to still the unfamiliar tingling between her legs. Though she keeps her eyes shut tight, sleep is a long time coming.

 

II

_9, 8, 7…_

The alien sounds repeat on a loop in his brain. It is the same sequence whenever he steals close to the Kuba village to watch her, a maddening progression that serves no purpose. Yet always she makes the sounds, her forehead resting against the tree, her eyes closed. At first he thought that she was training the children of the Kuba to lay hidden, in wait for predators to be brought down by spear or bone knife. But the children laugh as they scamper away, making so much noise that the chimps in the trees answer their calls with hoots of their own, and their hiding places are easily discovered by even the most apathetic of creatures. One boy hides beneath the brush, too close to the leopard's trail to mount a proper ambush; another scurries beneath a log covered in the soft green moss that makes good nourishment when game is unavailable. The female finds them easily, and her laughter always carries to him where he sits high in the trees, watching her and wishing that she would turn that smile upon him.

_9, 8, 7…_

Tarzan sits now with his back to a massive juniper trunk, his lips silently forming the shapes of the strange and exotic sounds. His fingers trace endlessly over the raised stiches on the scrap of fabric in his hand, and though he has traveled the length and breadth of the forest he has never seen flowers of the like that form the ridges on the cloth.

He has never seen a female like her, either.

His breath stops as he remembers the curve of her hip, the slope of her breast, the fresh clean scent of her that made his cock stir. When he holds the cloth to his nose he can imagine that it still carries a hint of her delicious scent, and he breaths deep of it and remembers the brush of her hair against his arm and the erratic tempo of her heart beneath his cheek. Just the memory of the sweet lilt of her voice as she murmured incomprehensible sounds is enough to set his own heart pounding.

_9, 8, 7…_

Akut reaches out a hand to snatch at the cloth, and Tarzan bares his teeth at his brother in warning. The cloth is _his_ , and he pushes away from the rough bark of the tree before Akut can do more than snarl in return. He takes quickly to the treetops, travels farther and faster than any in his tribe can follow until he comes to the place where the water falls in the distance and the leaves are soft and rotted. He buries his treasure among the dead leaves.

By the time he has stood from his task, he knows what he must do. 

It has been many days since he approached the female during her inadequate training ritual with the children. Each sunrise he thinks of her; each day he finds the time to visit the clearing near the Kuba village in hopes of seeing her; each night he dreams of her soft skin and soothing scent. 

She has gifted him with a piece of herself, and he must bring her something in return. Something that makes it clear to her that she is of great value to him. Something worthy of her. Something to show her that he will take care of her, if she will only let him.

* * *

Two sunrises later, Tarzan watches in his usual spot in the trees. He waits until the children of the Kuba have dashed away at the end of their incomprehensible game, echoes of their laughter still ringing in the air. The female hesitates after they have gone, one small pale hand brushing against the bark of a tree and her head cocked toward the dim recesses of the deeper forest. Her gaze is expectant, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He watches with narrowed eyes. That way lies the trail of the great lion and the hunting lands of the cheetah. If she begins to set down that path he will have to abandon his plan and follow; she is far too small and weak to be trusted alone in such a perilous area. To his relief she finally sighs and turns away from the path, her feet stirring up the dry leaves on the ground as she turns her step toward her village.

He tracks her progress and reaches for a vine; swings lower until he can drop his gift proudly at her feet before landing neatly beside her.

The female screams.

Tarzan ducks into a protective crouch in front of her, his hand dropping immediately to the bone knife strapped to his ankle. He pulls it smoothly from its sheathe even as he turns in a circle, his eyes darting to and fro to seek out the danger that caused the woman to react so strongly. He lifts his head and scents the air when his gaze finds nothing out of the ordinary. 

He turns back to the female to find that she has placed her hand on her heart. Even from several feet away he can see that her chest is rising and falling as though she had run a long distance or done battle with a sibling; her small hand trembles against her breast. 

And her gaze is not fixed on a threat coming from the forest, but on the dead leopard he has dropped at her feet as a gift.

Her lashes flutter as she finally pulls her eyes away from her prize. The corner of her mouth turns up – an approximation of the smile that he dreams of every night – but he can see that her face is still pale with fright. "I think you dropped something," she says.

The sounds from her lips are nothing like the sweet lilt of her voice when she plays with the children, or the strong and confident noises she used with him the first time they met. It occurs to him that perhaps she thinks he intends for her to butcher the animal herself. He quickly holds up a hand to indicate that she should stay where she is, then efficiently slits the leopard from pelvis to breastbone, easing through the muscle layer to the sweet meat below. Another quick cut has the organs in his hands.

He carefully picks up the heart and holds it out to her. When she merely stares at him blankly, he lifts the delectable organ halfway to his mouth to show her his intention, then gestures for her to take it from his grasp.

The female's face blanches even further, her mouth twisting in a tense line.

"Oh… um… no, thank you," she says. "I couldn't, really. I gave up eating internal organs for Lent."

Tarzan cocks his head. Does she not understand that he honours her by giving her the juiciest and most tender part of the animal? Blood drips from his fingers as he tries again, and this time she takes a little skip backwards. Maybe she fears that the meat has been tainted somehow? But no, now her gaze has slipped from the meat in his hands to graze up and down his body, lingering for a long moment at the juncture of his thighs. Her lovely face regains its colour when she reddens prettily before jerking her eyes back to his.

Tarzan cannot help but puff out his chest. The female finds him pleasing, and his gift will surely be accepted. 

"Oh please," she says. "Like you wouldn't look if you had the chance! I still remember the way you sniffed at me, you know!"

That is the sound he remembers from her lips, strong and loud and feisty! Now he need only show her that the meat is safe to eat. He watches the curl of her lips carefully for a moment; presses his own lips together in an approximation of her expression. This also pleases her, because the smile she gives him in return relaxes her stiff shoulders and lights up the clearing.

He sits slowly down a few steps away from the slaughtered animal, the precious organs still in his grip and his knife near to hand in the dirt. The longer the precious morsels of meat remain in his hand the quicker they will cool in the still afternoon air, and they are best eaten fresh from the beast. When he gestures to the female she carefully folds her legs beneath her and sits across from him, though he notices that she tries very hard to keep her eyes on his face and not on the parts of his body that she finds especially pleasing. In return, he doesn't let his gaze drift to the swell of her bosom beneath her thin covering, or the firm line of her thighs where they bunch against the fabric of her gown.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he takes a tiny bite of the heart. The succulent flavour bursts on his tongue, but he chews slowly and fastidiously to show her that there is no harm in the delicious morsel. Then he holds it out to her. It is hers, after all. He will provide only the best for the female.

"We’re really going to do this, aren't we?" she says.

The noises are pleasant because they are meant for his ears alone, even if he cannot understand what they mean. He can only press the organ closer to her, show her with his fingers that she should take it from him and lift it to her lips.

"You know, if you'd told me a month ago that I'd be sitting in a jungle clearing eating raw meat with a naked wild man, I'd have said you were crazy," she says. She meets his eyes again and then shakes her head, but she uses the tips of her fingers to cautiously take the warm meat from his palm. It confuses him when her beautiful face screws up in an expression similar to the one that his brother Akut made when he ate the rotten berries four seasons ago, and she squares her shoulders in the fashion of a lesser male of the tribe whenever one prepares to confront Kerchak. Then she opens her sumptuous lips and takes a small bite of the organ. 

It's not enough. Such a tiny bite would barely satisfy the least of the mangini, let alone a female as small and delicate as she. He urges her again with gestures to take another bite.

"In for a penny, in for a pound?" she says. Her shoulders lift and then she obliges him, the warm blood staining her teeth and a single drop escaping from her mouth to trail slowly down her chin. She freezes suddenly when he lifts a hand to swipe the droplet from her skin, his long finger scooping the blood away before it can stain her pale flesh. She shivers when he pops the finger into his own mouth to lick it clean.

"Well, that was certainly… interesting," she says. 

Tarzan's brow creases as she puts the meat aside in the dirt but when he leans forward to pick it up again in an attempt to get her to eat more, she holds up a hand to stop him. Her head tilts, studying him as he studies the panther or the cheetah before he strikes. 

"You're not an evil spirit at all," she says. Her eyes are wide and wondering, as though she's seen the sun fall between the twin peaks of the mountains on the distant shore. It is a sight that Tarzan has seen only once, the distance to travel being so great, but it is one that he will never forget. "You're just a man." 

He likes to watch the shape of her lips when she makes sounds at him. He tentatively makes his own sounds back – the guttural twist of his lips that means 'eat', the low growl that means 'mine', the soft purr that means 'love'. 

And then it is his turn to stiffen when her small hand drifts toward his face. Her fingers trace his lips, and his breath puffs out warm and shuddering against her palm. His heart hammers against his rib cage, pounding harder and faster than it did when he took down the leopard to make her this gift; the hair on the back of his neck stands on end; his cock shifts and rises in the pool of his lap. It is the last that makes her pull away abruptly. She rushes to her feet and he is up and beside her in an instant, his hand wrapped around her wrist. 

A voice calls from the direction of the village. A male. 

Tarzan snarls instinctively, his fingers tightening around the female's wrist. 

No. Not _the_ female. _His_ female. She owned his heart from the moment she let him approach and gave him her soft words. She owned his mind when she pushed him away, showing him that she would not be dominated when his touch was too much for her to bear. She owned his soul when she sat with him, taking the nourishment he provided. She is his… and he is hers. He will protect her and care for her until his dying day.

"I have to go," she says.

She pulls at his grip. 

He could keep her. Sweep her into his arms and take to the treetops. Ensconce her in the strange dwelling in the trees that is filled with inscrutable objects. She would be his forever.

"Tarzan," she says.

His head whips up at the sound of his name. She meets his wide, wild eyes; reaches up with her free hand to smooth her fingers along his cheek. His eyes close at her gentle touch. The male voice repeats, louder now, yelling a single sound over and over. "I have to go," she says.

He releases her hand. 

 

III

"Where were you yesterday?"

Jane tips her head to squint up at Wasimbu. She gestures with a wide sweep of her hand toward Mayifa and Basimwa, both children sitting cross-legged before her as she works with them on their letters. "You're interrupting my lesson," she says primly.

Her friend barks out a command in his native tongue, and the children's eyes go wide as they quickly get to their feet and scamper away.

"How very rude!" Jane scolds. She snaps her book shut decisively, uses one hand to push herself to her feet. The dried grass sticks to her arm and a lock of hair has escaped her clip to brush against her cheek, but she ignores both to straighten her shoulders and meet Wasimbu's eyes. "Since you have nothing better to do than scare away my students, I'll be returning to my hut."

Wasimbu scowls at her as she leans down to retrieve her straw hat. By the time she rises Wasimbu has taken another step toward her. "Why do you act this way?" he asks.

"Really?" she snaps out. "Why are you so obtuse?"

The indulgent little smirk that has so often marked Wasimbu's face in the past few months is decidedly absent as she turns her back and starts to make her way back to the centre of the village. But she has barely taken three steps on the beaten down grass before he's skipped forward to match her pace, his fingers enclosing around the meat of her arm to pull her to a sudden stop.

Jane's eyes flash as she looks deliberately into the eyes of her friend before letting her gaze drop to his grip on her flesh.

"My apologies," Wasimbu says. The hand on her arm releases her quickly, and she has to force herself not to rub at the spot where his fingers so recently lay. She knows that he means her no harm – Wasimbu would throw himself in front of a charging rhinoceros before hurting her – but she cannot help but contrast the rough pressure of his grip on her bicep with the way Tarzan's long fingers had wrapped gently around her wrist the day before. 

Her cheeks redden at the very thought of the jungle wild man, and she spins and continues stalking toward her dwelling before the image of him can strengthen in her mind. But Tarzan is never far from her thoughts and the memory only leads to others: of his patience as he urged her to sample the bloody meat of the downed leopard; of the sure and steady way he handled his knife; of the proud way he had preened when she noticed his… considerable assets. And she did not need to have any experience in the matter to know that they were _very_ considerable indeed.

"It is not safe for you to wander alone so far from the village, Jane Porter!" 

The pleasant memories shatter like broken glass at her friend's words.

"Why is that?" she asks, still stomping away from him. She whirls before he can answer, one finger raised. "Oh wait, I remember. It must be because I'm just a silly girl who can't be trusted!"

"If you say you have seen Tarzan of the Apes, I will believe you."

Half a dozen improper words that she definitely didn't learn from her father's vocabulary books tumble through her head, and she pushes them back with a huff of determination. "Well, thank you for that so very patronizing response," she bites out. 

"Your father trusts us to see to your safety while he is gone," Wasimbu answers reasonably.

"No," Jane says. "My father trusts _your father_ to ensure that I'm safe. And you'll note that Muviro has _no_ problem with my actions. It's only his son who's acting like a big bully!"

"Have you told my father who you have seen in your treks?"

"Whether I have or have not is no business of yours," Jane counters hotly. The little lie pricks only the tiniest bit at her conscience. Muviro would no doubt be very concerned if he knew that a stranger lurked so closely to the Kuba village, especially one as feared as Tarzan by the superstitious tribe.

"And have you considered the danger such as he could bring to the village? To the children?"

Jane cannot prevent the gasp that falls from her lips. The very thought that Tarzan would harm an innocent child is anathema to her; to think such a thing seems like the most grievous of sin. He might be a little thief, but she had plenty of handkerchiefs. And he had been nothing but gentle and kind, if completely unused to the dictates of society, even those as loosely defined by the Kuba. He had ample occasion to harm her and sought only to touch her skin, to draw in her scent, to feed her, to keep her safe. She has not forgotten the way he darted in front of her to protect her when she had let out a shocked squeal at the sight of the dead leopard.

Wasimbu has simply gone too far.

She draws herself up to her quite innocuous height. And though she had only a single semester of Miss Summercrest's Academy for Young Ladies before her father had pulled her from the school to take her with him on his mission to the Congo, she puts every last ounce of will into the precise tones of dismissal she had learned in her time there. "I'll thank you to leave me alone for the time being, Wasimbu," she says. She lifts her chin, almost certain that she can _feel_ the frost in the air. "Good day."

He doesn't follow when she strides confidently to her hut. She tosses the book onto the little table in the sitting room, her hat onto the peg near the door. With her lessons cancelled due to Wasimbu's impetuousness she has the afternoon to herself. But her novel – one that her father had brought her from a meeting with his colleagues in Boma on a prior excursion, and one that she has read many times in the year since – cannot hold her interest. The reeds that she attempts to fashion into a basket crush and crumble in her hands. When she sets ink to paper in an effort to finally write the letter that she has long owed her childhood friend Elizabeth, she ends up with blurred smudges of trite words. 

What she wants to do cannot be accomplished in the tidy dwelling she normally shares with her father. What she wants can only be found in the clearing where she takes the children to play hide and seek.

And though she has harboured a great affection for Wasimbu in the years that she and her father have lived in the village, Jane knows now that what she needs cannot be found with the Kuba. 

She would like to say that she strode as confidently from her hut as she had approached it, her head held high as she sought out the other half of her heart. But the reality is that she slinks from her doorway like a chastened child, looking guiltily over her shoulder until she reaches the tree-line and the cool shade of the overhanging branches. Her slippered feet make little noise on the fallen leaves as she increases her pace until she's practically running as she emerges into the clearing. 

She pushes back the disappointment at finding the space empty of life. Had she really thought that Tarzan would somehow sense her impending arrival; that he would be waiting for her, perhaps with a bundle of flowers with which to woo her? She sniffs amusedly at her own folly. Soon she'll believe that he can talk to the animals, too! Still… this is the place that he has met her in the past, and he had most certainly come searching with her in mind when he brought the leopard to her. Is it so strange to believe that he has watched her at other times, choosing to remain hidden instead of reveal himself to her? Suddenly she's certain that he _has_ done so. Though her heart and her mind are often at odds, on this they agree.

But she won't know for sure unless she tries.

"Tarzan! Are you here?"

Jane turns in a slow circle, one hand raised to shade her eyes as she scans the towering treetops. Her call stirs several chimpanzees and sets them to chattering; a flurry of leaves falls from a tree several feet away to mark the sight of their disturbance. Nothing else moves among the leafy canopy above her head.

"If you're here, I'll really wish you'd come down!" she tries again. Silence, not even the little monkeys bothering to rise this time at the sound of her voice. Jane drops her head, her shoulders slumping. When she speaks again, her voice is no louder than when she drills the children on their letters. "I'd really like to see you," she says. "I could use a friendly face right about now."

Nothing but the rustle of leaves as the chimps scurry away to find a quieter haven.

Jane's steps take her to the biggest tree in the clearing and she lays a hand on the rough bark. Here, for the last several months, she has bent her head and counted backward from ten as the children giggle and scurry to hide. Here she stood when her lavender scented handkerchief was snatched so easily from her grasp. Here she squeaked in surprise when her wild man fell from the trees to lay a dead animal at her feet. A prize, she realizes. A present. 

She sighs, turns her back to the tree and folds her legs beneath her to sit and lean against it. Her head tips but she can see only the canopy of leaves, only the barest hint of sunlight finding its way past the dense forest cover. For a brief moment she considers Wasimbu's words seriously. Anything could be lurking in that vast expanse, and there is truly no safety in the wilds of the Congo. And the one person she wishes so fervently to find – the one person that she knows with every fibre of her being will never harm her – is nowhere to be seen.

Jane bends her head to take in the hands clasped in her lap, then closes her eyes. "Maybe I _am_ being a silly girl," she says quietly to herself. 

She's not sure how long she lazes against the tree. Long enough for the chimpanzees to return to their exploration of the branches above. Long enough for her bottom to start to become numb, and for her limbs to protest their inertness. Nothing changes in the still silence of the clearing, yet even before she opens her eyes… she _knows_ that she is no longer alone.

"You're here," she breathes out. "I hoped you'd come."

Tarzan perches in front of her and cocks his head, his eyes wide as he watches her. When she pats the ground in front of her he mimics her position, moving slowly to sit cross-legged facing her. The position and proximity gives her a clear view of the part of him that most intrigues her, and she does her best to keep her gaze on his clear blue eyes.

"I wanted to thank you for the leopard. The food?" she says. When he merely blinks, she makes an eating motion with her hand. "The food, yesterday? Thank you." 

His brow furrows and he moves to rise, and she reaches out to snag at his forearm. He halts so swiftly that her breath catches, and stays so still that he reminds her of the statues she once saw in the National Gallery when she was a little girl. Only his quick intake of breath at the press of her fingers on her arm and the emotion in his eyes reveals that he's a living man. 

"No, I don't want more food," she tells him. She reluctantly releases his arm, only realizing that his flesh was thrumming beneath her fingers when she drops her hand back into her lap. She breathes easier when he settles in front of her again, though his brow remains creased with confusion. "You really don't know a word of English, do you?"

His hand lifts slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. And it is all she can do not to close her eyes and sigh in contentment when his fingertips brush over her lips with the gentlest of touches.

"This isn't crazy, is it?" she says when his hand has fallen back to his side. "We hardly know each other, after all. But I don't believe those ridiculous stories! You're not a spirit and you're certainly not evil. You're a man – a handsome man – who is kind to me. And everything about being with you feels right." 

She swallows nervously even though he does nothing more than regard her seriously. She's never tried to articulate the thoughts swirling through her head; has never even known that a woman could have such thoughts until her wild man appeared. Her fingers twist in her lap; her mouth feels as dry as the grass on the plains. 

"The way you make me _feel_ ," she begins haltingly. "Like there's a current running beneath my skin, making all the hairs on my arms stand on end. Like I can't breathe properly when you're near. Like there's an emptiness inside of me that only you can fill. Does that make sense?"

He tilts his head in imitation of her gesture. His gaze darts between her eyes and her lips before he again raises his arm, this time to brush his knuckles through the fall of her hair.

"Yes, my hair is long, like yours," she says. She has never been one to let nervousness or anxiety prevent her from taking an action, so takes a page from his book and boldly reaches out to twirl a strand of his long blond hair around her finger. "Although I do brush mine regularly, and yours look like a rat has taken up residence! Do you even own a comb?" she teases.

He stills again when she touches him, and her own shoulders stiffen until she realizes that he is simply unsure of how to proceed. It occurs to her for the first time that she may be the first woman he has ever encountered; the first person, male or female, to talk to him and touch him and treat him like a human being instead of a spirit to be hunted or feared. She only reluctantly lets his hair fall from her fingers. 

His fingers pluck at the sleeve of her gown, his gaze now curious. "It's clothing. This is a dress," she tells him. "And I must tell you, it would be much easier on me if you wore some kind of covering as well. A lady is not supposed to be seeing… well, everything that you're showing! Not that I'm looking, mind you. At least… not very much." 

When he merely gazes at her with incomprehension, she slumps back against the rough bark of the tree. "Oh, this would be so much easier if we could communicate," she gripes to herself. 

Again his head cocks, and he watches her lips intently. Jane brightens as she considers his actions. He's aware, then, that the sounds she's making are a form of speech. And what does she do day in and day out but assist her father in teaching English to the Kuba? 

She straightens her shoulders, and reaches out to decisively tap his chest. His broad, muscled chest. She swallows dryly, blinks to bring herself into focus. "Tarzan," she says firmly. She presses two fingers into his chest again for emphasis, enunciates slowly and carefully. "Tarzan," she repeats.

When he lifts his hand to wrap his fingers around hers, it is all she can do to patiently extricate herself from his grip. His fingers are firm and calloused, though his grip is oddly formed. Still, she can't help wondering what those rough fingers would feel like caressing other parts of her body. Her face reddens at the mere thought, and something low in her body tightens in need. "Now, hand holding is all well and good, but first we need to get a start on your lessons," she scolds playfully. She lets his hand fall before pressing her fingers now to her own chest. "Jane," she says. 

A tap to his chest. "Tarzan," she says. 

A tap to her own chest. "Jane."

Teaching the children has taught her to recognize that moment of perception, when the patiently repeated words are suddenly more than just random sounds and are imbued with meaning. She sees that light in Tarzan's eyes on only the second repetition of their names. He leans forward, studying her lips intently. She sucks in a gasp of breath at his nearness, his lips so close to her own that she need only nudge herself forward for them to brush against hers, and tries to focus on forming her name carefully as he watches. 

"Jane," she says again.

His mouth twitches, lips pursing as he struggles to follow the shape of the consonant. When he finally speaks, he is still so close that she can feel the puff of his breath against her cheek.

"Jane," he says slowly.

"Yes! I'm Jane!" She laughs delightedly, thrilled when he smiles along with her. She taps her chest excitedly. "Jane!"

"Jane," he repeats more confidently. His hand presses against her chest as he repeats the gesture. "Jane," he says.

He doesn't move his hand, and Jane's smile falters as she gasps in a breath. Thoughts of teaching Tarzan to understand English fly away in the face of his touch. Everything in her seems to narrow to a pinpoint focus on his hand – warm through the thin material of her dress, palm splayed wide above the swell of her breast. An inch or two lower and his big hand would be able to cup her roundness in his palm. She feels dizzy at the very idea.

Tarzan's eyes dip to the place where he touches her. When he flexes his hand the strength of it makes her shiver, but not in fear. What she feels is anticipation. 

When he lifts his hand to curl a finger around her hair, she leans into his touch.

When his other hand raises oh-so-slowly to cradle her cheek, she sighs.

She's seen couples in the village share affection. She's read of kisses in the novels that her father procures for her. She'd even envisioned stealing away with Wasimbu one night and daring to press her lips to his. But none of her observations or readings or forbidden imaginings had prepared her for the real thing. 

Somehow she never imagined that her chest would feel tight at the very idea of it, or that her skin would prickle at the touch of a finger on her collarbone, or that her nipples would tingle and the area between her legs would dampen. She never thought that her breath would catch in her throat as he closed the distance between them.

Tarzan's lips are soft, and dry. They move against hers tentatively, a gentle brush of pressure. When he pulls away she knows that she is smiling goofily, and his finger lifts to trace the contours of her smile in awe and wonder.

Then he is pressing forward again, his lips crashing against hers. Her mouth opens in a gasp of surprise and then his _tongue_ is inside her mouth, sweeping against hers in a way that causes her limbs to tremble and her heart to pound. Her fingers clench at his shoulders and she's not certain if she means to keep him close or prevent him from going further; all she knows is that her body is keening in a way it never has before and she cannot stop the moans that are falling from her lips.

When his hands drop from her face to tug on her hips and pull her into his lap, Jane's eyes fly open. That part of him that she has so studiously avoiding before now has… grown, and is now pressing insistently against her stomach. She's never been particularly prudish and living in the village has certainly opened her eyes to things that her American girlfriends could never imagine seeing, but suddenly all the furtive movements she's glimpsed under blankets coalesce into the proper pattern in her mind. And now she knows why her body seems to grasp for him, why the juncture between her thighs feels empty and hollow and needy. 

Tarzan pulls back, his gaze confused. 

"You're wondering why I've stopped kissing you," Jane says, surprised that her voice comes out so steady despite the tumult of all these new discoveries. "I'm simply a little overwhelmed, that's all."

"Jane," Tarzan says.

Jane smiles. "Yes, I'm Jane. And this is a kiss." She holds two fingers to her lips, then moves to press them against his. The motion seems shockingly intimate, despite what they've just shared. And despite the fact that she is sitting in a naked man's lap. "Kiss," she repeats.

"Kiss," Tarzan agrees.

And then he puts his new word into action, leaning into her to possessively take her lips again. She melts into his embrace, the sounds of the jungle fading away until she is boneless and pliant, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her tongue twisting lazily with his. She has a brief and amusing thought that Miss Summercrest would be aghast at one of her Young Ladies behaving in such a manner, and the thought only stirs her to throw herself more passionately into the kiss. She wishes she could stay with him like this all day and all night.

Until Tarzan's hand cups and squeezes her breast.

She can't say why the blatant act shocks her so. They are sitting as close as any two people can be, kissing like there's no tomorrow, and he is _naked_. Yet the warm clasp of his hand acts as a splash of cold water on her desire, and she reacts impulsively.

"Oh! No!" She pushes against his shoulders, struggles in his lap. "You can't!"

Tarzan is up and away from her in the space of a single heartbeat, his eyes wide and gaze wary. Frightened. The very idea that _she_ has frightened the feared Tarzan of the Apes would be a laughable one were it not for the hurt and terrified look in his eyes. But before she can do more than stagger to her feet to begin an explanation he has disappeared into the underbrush.

Jane stumbles after him. "Wait!"

He moves so fast that he's nothing more than a blur in the trees. But Jane doesn't have time to curse herself for her kneejerk reaction before the rustle behind her alerts her that she's no longer alone in the forest, and this time her visitor is not friendly.

The ape swings from a low-lying branch to land a dozen feet from where she stands. Its beady eyes narrow and it shakes its massive head before letting loose with a mighty roar that sends the chimps screaming away and turns her blood to ice water.

And she runs. It's the stupidest thing that she can do but self-preservation instincts kick in before she can think about what she's doing. So she runs, and she trips, and she flops onto her back, and she sees the ape racing toward her, and she can only think that at least she got to kiss the man she thinks she might be coming to love before she dies.

She turns her head away as the ape lets loose with another vicious roar, and steels herself for the inevitable.

And then Tarzan is there.

He flings himself down and lies prone above her, caging her within his strong arms. And as the ape pounds savagely against his back, he doesn't look away from her eyes. He doesn't need to have the ability of speech because he is telling her everything she needs to know with a single look. She winces, but his expression doesn't falter even when his bones crack, when his body lurches from the fierce pummeling of the ape's ferocious attack. 

She doesn't know how long it lasts – Tarzan with his elbows braced above her to keep her safe, the ape grunting and snarling as he lifts and lowers his powerful arms, the brutal lurch of Tarzan's body every time the dual blows land on his unprotected back. It seems an eternity of her eyes locked with his, her breath coming in short, stuttered gasps, her fear a living breathing entity. 

It's only when the chimpanzees begin chattering again in the treetops that Tarzan's grip relaxes. He groans. His arms wobble before he lands on top of her, and Jane is suddenly aware that the attack had ended some minutes prior. Tarzan's heavy weight steals the breath from her lungs but she stays as still and quiet as a church mouse, carefully easing her head from beneath his to gaze out into the clearing. The ape has gone, and though she's loath to do Tarzan further damage she maneuvers her way cautiously from beneath his prone form, grimacing with every moan she causes to fall from his lips.

She crouches next to him in the dirt, aware that the brutish ape can return at any moment. Aware, too, that Tarzan has sustained extensive damage in protecting her. Aware that he may die. 

The thought stiffens her resolve. He will _not_ die, not if Jane Porter has anything to do with it. She straightens and lifts her chin. She can't tend to him here, nor can she move him to safety. She needs help.

She needs Wasimbu.

 

IV

_9, 8, 7…_

Tarzan blinks in the harsh sunlight, squints as he tries to bring images into focus. There is only brightness, and scents that are not of the forest, and a movement at the edge of his vision. A swirl of colour that blurs as it moves.

His female. _Jane_. Her name is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

She is not making the noises that indicate she is teaching the children to hide. He squints again, trying to see the tree where she bends her head and the fall of her long hair down her back, but there is just the bright glow surrounding her in a nimbus of light.

When he tries to take a deep breath the stabbing pain in his chest freezes his lungs, and he remembers. The sweet taste of his female, his Jane. Kerchak's attack. The fear in her eyes. 

"You're awake."

Tarzan blinks again, struggling to rise. The foundation below him shifts with his weight, his hand sinking into something cool and soft that feels similar to the covering that Jane wears on her body, and then her hand is pressing against his shoulder and pushing him back. Despite his pain he almost smiles at the thought of his tiny female physically overpowering him, but to his surprise she is easily able to nudge him onto his back. 

He snarls and tries to reach her again, this time managing to lift an arm from his side. His hand bats uselessly at her sleeve, his fingers refusing his orders to grasp her and pull her closer. He wants only to ensure that she is well, that Kerchak didn't harm her, but his body refuses to cooperate. He bares his teeth in frustration when he has to sink back onto the soft surface once again.

"Shhh, none of that," she says. "You're injured quite badly. You need to stay right there until I say it's all right for you to rise. And that won't be for several weeks yet. You gave us quite a scare."

The sounds she makes are meaningless but her voice is as soothing as water trickling over the rocks in the river. 

"Jane," he says.

"Yes." She smiles at him, the bright nimbus that surrounds her fading for an instant. His gaze flicks quickly over her unmarked skin, and he is finally able to relax back into the softness. She is safe and unharmed. Kerchak was foiled. 

He risks looking away from her briefly to take in his surroundings. The light stabs into his eyes, but he can barely make out sturdy walls bathed in shimmering brilliance. And though his eyesight fails him, he has no problem hearing the musical cadence of voices from beyond the structure. A Kuba hut, then. 

His arm feels like a fallen log, but he manages to lift it enough to pluck at the wrappings on his chest, feeling like a spider caught in a binding web. Jane takes his hand and easily moves it back to his side.

"And Jane is going to take care of you until you're well again. And you're going to do exactly what Jane says, isn't that right?"

"Jane," he says agreeably.

She shakes her head, her long hair rustling against her breast. He remembers the feel of her hair between his fingers, soft and silken. He wants to stroke her hair again, and caress her cheek, and see her eyes close in pleasure at his touch. 

"And once you're not falling asleep every ten minutes, we'll use this time to increase your vocabulary! Not that I don't love the sound of my own name, but I'd really like to be able to talk to you. There's so much I want to tell you."

The blur that is his woman moves away, and Tarzan keens as he hasn't since he was a baby in Kala's arms. 

"I'm right here," she calls from his side. 

He manages to turn his stiff neck enough to see her standing nearby with her hands fluttering in the air, and then she is back, perched with her full breast resting against his arm and leaning forward to push a hard vessel against his lips. She seems to want him to open his mouth so he does so, and is rewarded by cool, fresh water flooding his mouth. He did not realize how thirsty he was before she offered him the drink – his lovely Jane, taking care of him – though she removes the vessel too quickly to fully assuage his thirst. 

"Slowly," she says when he raises his head in an attempt to follow the drink. "I don't want you to be sick."

She doesn't move away from his side and her sweet scent envelopes him. Her fingers smooth through his hair, and if it were not for the pain in his ribs he would arch his back and purr like a lion cub. His Jane smells like the flowers that grow near the strange hut in the tree, and like safety, and like home. His fingers itch to touch her again. His cock twitches between his legs. 

"Kiss," he says hopefully. 

Jane's cheeks redden prettily as she darts a quick look behind her. When she makes sounds again, her voice has dropped to a mere whisper. "You're incorrigible, you know. You're going to get me in trouble!" she scolds. The noises sound harsh, but her eyes dance and her lips curve in a tempting smile.

"Kiss," Tarzan says. He doesn't wait for her response but summons all of his energy and surges up to meet her lips with his own. His ribs protest angrily but her taste is as sweet as he remembers.

When he finally sinks back onto the softness, Jane's eyes are hooded and her breath is rasping as harshly as his own. She makes many sounds quickly, but sudden exhaustion and the deep ache in his chest make the individual noises rush together like a chimpanzee's inane babble. He closes his eyes and thinks instead of their kiss. 

It was worth the pain.

 

V

"Tell me what you know of Tarzan," Wasimbu says.

His eyes twinkle. It's mid-afternoon instead of twilight, but the ridge and the view of the plains is the same as it was on the day she told Wasimbu of her first meeting with Tarzan. Jane can hardly believe that three months have passed since that conversation with her friend. Her life has been a whirlwind since then.

"Well," she answers with a grin, "he's been released from bedrest for quite some time, as you know. His vocabulary is growing by leaps and bounds, though ever since he started visiting with the missionaries he's taken on a British accent. That takes some getting used to! He still struggles with his spelling, though. Oh!" she adds, reaching over to poke Wasimbu in the ribs. "And he is definitely a man, not a myth or a demon." 

Jane wraps her arms around her bent knees when Wasimbu chuckles. Yes, Tarzan is a man. And his trek with her father and the missionaries to the 'hut in the tree' that he so often talked about revealed more than they expected. His ape mother Kala had found him there, Tarzan told them. They went to investigate more out of curiosity than anything. Jane had seen them on their way with a smile and a wave, never expecting the changes that would be wrought when they returned. 

Tarzan left the Kuba village a wild man begrudgingly civilized, still grumbling occasionally at the trousers he was forced to wear. He returned as a man named John Clayton, Earl of Greystoke. And he'll be a member of the House of Lords when he returns to England.

Her brow creases as she considers it. Oh, she wants him to fulfil his destiny. He'll be rich and powerful and want for nothing. But she's going to miss the man of the jungle who courted her with raw meat. Whose first words were 'Jane' and 'kiss'. Who snuck out of bed when his broken ribs were still firmly wrapped in order to hobble to the distant field to pick her flowers, and then haltingly told her in his new stilted English that she was more beautiful than any wild bloom. 

"He is a good man," Wasimbu says. "An honourable man."

"Yes," she agrees absently.

"He will make you a good husband."

Jane startles, drawn away from her melancholy musings. "We're not… he hasn't…"

"Of course you are," Wasimbu says. His smile is as indulgent as ever. "A blind hyena could see that the two of you love each other deeply. And John has been asking many questions about the mating rituals of your people. If he hasn't asked you to marry him yet, he will soon enough, Jane Porter."

Jane feels her cheeks grow pink at the words. She hadn't been able to deny the way her heart fluttered madly whenever John was near, and the shy and hopeful way he sometimes looked at her lately when she was teaching him made her head spin so that she sometimes struggled to follow the words in the book. He had not been so reticent in the early days, snatching her into his arms and stealing kisses at every opportunity until she was able to make him understand that a gentleman did not behave in such ways. 

She had thought that she'd chased him away too resolutely, her protests too firm, and when news came of his title and the imminent departure to England that was sure to follow she had tried to convince herself that she was glad of it. He would need to wed a proper British woman when the time came, not an American ragamuffin who had never even _seen_ a corset never mind worn one, and who hadn't a single penny to her name. 

She had pretended that the tears she shed when she was hidden away in her room were only tears of joy for him at his upcoming reunion with his family, with perhaps a little sadness mixed in because she would miss his warm smiles, his easy laughter, his confusion and gentle mockery of the clothes he was forced to wear. 

"You will say yes, will you not?" Wasimbu asks.

At her friend's confused look and hesitant gesture, Jane lifts a hand to swipe at her cheek. Her fingers come away wet with tears that she hadn't realized she'd begun to shed. And even as she watches, Wasimbu's puzzlement slowly morphs into a low simmering anger. He has always looked out for her – more than any of the other boys of the village – and no doubt would challenge John even now if he believed that the other man had hurt her. 

"I love him, Wasimbu," she reassures him, her voice wobbling with emotion. "If he asks… I will say yes."

Wasimbu studies her for a moment before settling back on his haunches. His gaze drifts out to the plains, his eyes narrowing as he studies the well-worn path to the watering hole. "This is good," he says.

At one point, Jane had almost believed that it would be she and Wasimbu who joined together in marriage. They had joked about Muviro gifting her father with knives and cooking pots to replace the loss of her labour, neither of them doubting that the colour of their skins would prevent their union. Jane, Wasimbu had once claimed, could convince a vulture to subsist on plants if she set her mind to it.

Now she had John, and her friend would be alone.

"Wasimbu…" she begins.

"You will always be my American sister," Wasimbu says firmly. 

 

VI

"Astounding," Jane says.

John watches as she makes her way slowly through the hut in the tree. She runs her hand over the bed, the grasses that once plumped it long ago rotted and blown away by the winds. She kneels next to the tiny wooden cabinet where the Professor had found his father's journal. When she turns to him, her eyes are wide with wonder.

He smiles at her, but his mind is elsewhere. 

It _is_ astounding, he thinks, to consider that he had a father who fought for him. A mother who birthed him. That he has a grandfather in a far off land that has been notified of his survival and has sent word that he awaits him with elation. That he will soon be expected to leave the only home he has ever known and take his place among his people, a place that is somehow revered and respected though he has done nothing to earn such an honour.

In this new land he'll be expected to behave as a civilized gentleman. So Jane tells him. He sneers at the thought, and tugs irritatingly at his clothing. The collar strangles his neck, and the trousers stretch painfully around his thighs and crush his balls. Luckily he had abandoned the thick leather hooves the Professor makes him wear at the base of the tree, before he found a vine and swept Jane into his arms and brought her to the treehouse.

The thought of wearing this unnatural clothing for the rest of his days makes him want to turn tail and rush back to the mangini. His brother Akut would welcome him. He would challenge Kerchak for tribal leadership and easily win. He could lead the apes.

And lose Jane, the woman he loves.

He cannot let that happen.

Whether he is Tarzan or John Clayton, the woman will be his until the end of his days.

And it occurs to him that he is not in England yet.

When he holds out a hand, Jane rises and crosses the room to him. Her skin is warm and soft in his calloused palm, a marked difference to his own. He has let his lips trace the skin on her neck and at the bend of her elbow and knows that it feels the same, silken and unmarred. He imagines that her entire body is similar; a banquet of pale, pure unmarked beauty.

"In a week's time, we will leave for England," he says.

"Yes."

"And once there, we will be wed," he continues. "Your father has explained the ceremony in great detail."

Jane rolls her eyes. "He's probably told you about all the pageantry and bother of a big wedding. Well, just because he never thought he could give me one is no reason to indulge him now! I'll tell him that myself. So you don't need to worry, the whole thing will be as simple as I can make it," she says. She grins up at him and leans her small body against his. "I don't care about the ceremony. I just want to be your wife."

John releases her hand to lift his knuckles to her hair, and smiles back when she nuzzles her cheek into his touch. "He has also told me," he says, "about the wedding night."

Jane's mouth parts in a delightful little gasp of shock. "I…" she begins. "He…"

"He tells me that I must be very gentle," John says. "Is this the way of civilized men? To claim their women with soft touches and murmured words in the dark?"

Jane gapes at him. Her bosom rises and falls rapidly beneath her shift, her heart quickening until he can feel it pounding against his chest. The pungent air in the decrepit hut in the tree floods with the scent of her arousal. Her mouth opens, her little pink tongue peeking out briefly to lick at her lips. He wants nothing more than to bend down and chase that tongue with his own, swallow her moans and feel her lush body pliant against his. 

Soon. 

"Because I am not a civilized man, Jane," John finishes. "And we are not in England yet."

He sees Jane's beautiful eyes widen just before he crushes his lips to hers, taking what is rightfully his. Her arms sling around his neck as he bends to scoop her into his arms, her heated core pressing against his rising cock. Her blunt nails dig into his shoulders as she clings to him, her tongue twining with his as she takes everything he offers and gives him more than he ever thought possible. John nearly stumbles at the force of her passion.

He manages to lead them to the corner of the hut, to tumble her to her back without releasing his hold on her waist or removing his lips from hers. When he finally pulls away, it is only to dip his head to her chest and mouth the roundness of her breast; to brush a knuckle against the taut firmness of her nipple through the fabric of her gown. 

He needs more.

He has learned how to undo buttons, though they are tiny little things that slip and slither from his grasp. But now he has no time to fuss with them, so he simply grasps the neckline of her gown and tugs. The fabric rips satisfyingly and the buttons tumble to the floor in a scatter of burnished pearl, and she is finally bare to his gaze. His woman. His Jane. He gasps at the sight of her; her skin as creamy and unblemished as he'd pictured, the fullness of her breasts taking his breath away. But not even his most illicit thoughts could let him imagine the hard, ridged peaks of her nipples, blushing red and begging for his touch. His mouth latches onto one unthinkingly, and when she arches her back and wraps her fingers in his hair to hold him in place she also gives him the moan he's been seeking. 

There may be no reeds or grasses in the bed for her comfort, but he plans to keep her so occupied and make her so happy that she won't even notice.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I fully intended to end this with a much longer love scene, but I ran out of time. Maybe I'll save it for a sequel. :)


End file.
